Writer's Block
by chappysmom
Summary: For more than three decades, John Watson and the written word had been the best and closest of friends. Even when he hadn't been writing himself, he had immersed himself in works by other people—anyone from Marcus Aurelius, to Dickens, to Jasper Fforde. And then, he'd been shot. How a bullet through his shoulder had left him bereft of words, he didn't know. (4 chapters)
1. Chapter 1

Note: I own nothing but my own plot, everything else is the BBC's, Stephen Moffat/Mark Gatiss's, and Arthur Conan Doyle's. I just like to play here. Not beta'd or Brit-picked.

######

* * *

John stared at his computer screen and just sighed. The cursor was mocking him, he was sure of it. Why else would it be blinking so smugly?

It used to be different. He'd been writing since he was a boy. His parents' attic was filled with dozens of notebooks of scribbles, stories, sketches … if he hadn't been studying, out playing with his friends or asleep, chances were always good that John would have a pen in his hand. Writing was like breathing—essential. It was unthinkable to pass a day without putting something down on paper.

Not that he'd let that interfere with his practical plans for the future. When he wasn't writing character sketches and stories, he was studying, determined to become a doctor. He spent hours trying to concentrate on his dry, badly-written science textbooks and wondered what law forbad inserting the tiniest bit of life or personality into them. Just because the facts were dry and unyielding didn't mean the prose needed to be. Sometimes he had joked that he got such high grades because his teachers appreciated that his essays were written in _English_, rather than obfuscating technical jargon.

He had taken his empty journals with him everywhere—university, medical training, and into the army. He would spend hours of his free time (when he could find free time) recording thoughts and impressions. The look of hope mingled with dread on family faces when they saw him come out of the operating theatre. The desperate need of his fellow soldiers when he bent over their bloody bodies. The beauty of the Afghanistan mountains early in the morning. The powerful silence that fell between hearing there were casualties on the way and the explosion of activity to prepare for it.

No, for more than three decades, John Watson and the written word had been the best and closest of friends. Even when he hadn't been writing himself, he had immersed himself in works by other people—anyone from Marcus Aurelius, to Dickens, to Jasper Fforde. Fiction. Nonfiction. Memoirs. Poetry. Novels. Short stories. Even song lyrics if he could find nothing better (and some song lyrics were very good indeed).

And then, he'd been shot.

How a bullet through his shoulder had left him bereft of words, he didn't know.

Not that he was silent. He held conversations with his doctors, with his therapists. He talked to fellow patients. He might not be verbose, but it wasn't like words had escaped him altogether.

Until he tried to put them on paper.

The minute he held a pen to a page, or sat in front of a keyboard … there was nothing. Not physically. He could still form the letters, could force himself through the army's innumerable forms and requisitions. He could manage a couple of sentences to Harry to reassure her that he was alive, and that nothing permanent was damaged, but somehow, he was starting to doubt that.

Somehow, he had lost the ability to write, as if the network of nerves and ligaments that had connected his brain to his hand, allowing words to flow so liberally, so generously, for as long as he could remember had been blocked. As if the scar tissue spread through his shoulder was a dam he couldn't traverse.

When he said he couldn't write, he didn't mean the act of forming the words. He meant … _writing_. That magical transmutation of thoughts and impressions into a series of words that conveyed depth and meaning to a reader. The ability to take words so straightly, stiffly listed in the dictionary like long lines of soldiers and release them to find their own way, their own partners, creating towns and networks of words to build their own world. All that was gone. Anything other than the strictest, most direct sentences was lost to him. Suddenly his emails home sounded like something a seven-year old would write. ("Dear Harry. How are you? I'm fine.")

He hadn't written like a seven-year old even when he'd been seven.

It was no wonder, he thought, that his hand had developed a tremor. The power of all those words trapped, unable to escape, was like a flood being held back by a dyke. It was only ironic that the fingers keeping the words dammed and held belonged to himself. It was even more ironic that, rather than feeling the pressure of blocked words, waiting to explode out onto paper, John felt emptier than he ever had in his life.

#

He almost laughed when his therapist told him to keep a blog, explaining that writing down the things that happened to him would help.

It was so pathetic it was funny. John knew, better than anyone of his acquaintance, the value of keeping a journal to record thoughts, feelings, events, and so on. Didn't he have boxes of them? Hadn't that been a cornerstone of his life since the beginning of time?

To be fair, he could understand the hints of frustration in her voice as she tried to explain. How many knuckle-headed soldiers had she told this to over the years? John was realistic when he thought about some of his (former) comrades-in-arms. Most of them rarely cracked a newspaper much less a book, and as to writing? They might manage to force out an email home, but verbosity was never exactly a problem. Neither was proper spelling, grammar, or punctuation.

No, the fact his therapist failed to grasp was that John _wanted_ to keep a journal again. He yearned to, ached to put words on paper with the same felicity he'd taken for granted. Somehow the fact that he used to have a gift for writing never found its way into her notes, and he couldn't bring himself to enlighten her. Talking about his lost writing was worse than talking about his now-defunct surgical skills. Why dwell on what was lost? Any wake that was necessary was being held in his hand and his heart on a daily basis. He didn't need public mourners.

And so he sat in his chair with the same pose he'd seen in countless other faces over the years—that of pure scepticism that writing could do anyone any good.

"Nothing happens to me."

Limping out of his bedsit, he tried not to think about the utter irony that, for the first time in his life he had all the time in the world to write, and there wasn't a single word he could find worth recording, however fleetingly, even as pixels on a screen.

#

John walked through the park, thinking about libraries and bookstores. Maybe he could find inspiration from someone else's writing? Or at least find comfort in knowing that at least some writers were finding a way past their word-eating ghosts and demons….

"John? John Watson?"

He paused, turning on his heel to look over his shoulder at the round man beaming at him. "Mike Stamford. I know, I got fat."

They chatted for a bit, catching up over a cup of the Criterion's coffee. "So what are you doing now?"

John just shook his head and tapped his leg with his cane. "At loose ends for the moment."

Mike nodded, veering away from the awkward topic. "Still writing, then?" he finally asked, as if John's writing was as eternal as the weather, and then looked stunned as John shook his head. "That's not the John Watson I know."

"I'm not the John Watson…" he shook his head, forcibly, as if shaking the recalcitrant words loose, clenching his fist as if to let the words drip from his fingers. "So, what are you doing these days?"

They talked about Barts then, and costs of living in London, and when John mumbled his bitter, "Who would want me for a flatmate?" and Mike replied, "You're the second person to say that to me today," John was surprised to feel a glimmer of interest.

"Who was the first?"

#

Meeting Sherlock Holmes was a revelation.

For the first time in months, words danced behind John's eyes—enigmatic, stunning, brilliant, confusing, contradictory, interesting—and it was all he could do to stumble along behind the conversation, reaching for the thread of it, just out of his grasp as he fought the flood of impressions.

He felt breathless as the door swung shut behind the man, leaving John staring blankly at Mike, feeling as blind-sided as he had been when the bullet slammed through his shoulder. Nothing could have prepared him for the force of it, the sudden shock, as if all the oxygen had been pulled from the air.

"He's always like that," Mike said, looking all too entertained as John floundered in front of him.

There were too many questions crowding in his brain, the words all pressing against his tongue, weighing it down with tangles and lines of words. Why would Mike introduce him to someone like that? What _was_ that, anyway? What kind of person …? How did he…?

He finally managed, "Who was that?"

"Sherlock Holmes. I told you, he's looking for a flatmate. You might want to jot down the address before you forget—that was 221B Baker Street, if you didn't hear it correctly. You look a little shell-shocked."

Shell-shocked, thought John. A phrase dating back to WWI when the powers-that-be believed post-traumatic stress was actually a physical reaction to the blast of an artillery shell, somehow interfering with brain waves or the blood flow … he couldn't quite remember. He just knew that that perfectly described how he was feeling. Bowled over and blown away by an invisible force of nature.

He nodded absently at Mike, as he stared, dazed, at his phone a minute, trying to rally his thoughts enough to record that address before he forgot it. He remembered that he'd been irritated a minute ago at the man's assumption that he would come, but there was a part of him that felt like it had just caught the edge of a fresh breeze, and suddenly he didn't want to miss this chance.

"Here." Mike's hand came into his field of vision, holding out a piece of paper with the details written down and sounding more amused than ever. "Do you need to sit down, John?"

He shook his head and pulled in one more, deep breath before giving a rueful smile. "No, I'm fine. Always like that, you say?"

Mike didn't even try to hide his grin as he nodded. "Possibly the most annoying man in England, but never boring."

I could use less boredom in my life, thought John, but all he did was nod a bit and say thanks before excusing himself, trying to remember the way the man's words had blasted through him. Did he want to live near that kind of flashpoint? To experience that kind of seismic activity every day? His nerves weren't what they used to be, after all, and peace and quiet was supposed to be the sovereign remedy for everything that could ail a sufferer of PTSD.

Except, sometimes John didn't feel he had been traumatized back on the battlefield. It wasn't the war or the loss of adrenalin that had left him wounded. It was the way his muse had abandoned him once his nerves had started jangling rather than smoothly humming that hurt.

#

That night, he pulled up a page for a new blog post and, typing slowly, carefully, as if afraid he would frighten the circling words away like timid fawns (eager for attention but wary), he wrote a new entry. "I met an interesting man today," he began, and awkwardly, as if learning to walk again, tapped out a brief description of his meeting with Sherlock.

The prose was awful, he thought. Clunky, unskilled. Certainly nothing to be proud of, but still, it was the first time he'd managed to put words on a page since a lifetime ago

Maybe he was getting better after all, he thought, as he fell into the most restful sleep he'd had since a bullet shattered his shoulder.

#

Bemused, John watched his new (maybe?) flatmate spin around the room as if his personal gravity worked like centrifugal force instead of the steadying constant it was for most people. The energy and enthusiasm was infectious. They had been in the flat less than fifteen minutes and John already felt he had met several different people. There had been the civil gentleman who had met him at the door, making polite introductions to the landlady. Then there'd been the eager-to-please young man who began straightening up as soon as John mentioned the mess. The proud professional who was hurt when John scoffed. (He felt a twinge of remorse at that, as Sherlock's face fell.)

And then this. This whirlwind of excitement and eagerness, blathering about suicides and Christmas, and John was suddenly wondering what he was getting himself into. When, moments later, Sherlock whirled back into the room long enough to pull John, helpless, along in his wake, John began to realize what a human-sized force of nature was like.

What he didn't expect was the draw he felt to this changeable, intriguing man. No matter which face he showed, he was totally _himself_, untroubled by what people might expect of him. The gravity of his personality drew John to him with a kind of wondering awe, an urge to simply watch and observe this force of nature go about his day.

It was a type of charisma John had never met before—total self-involvement wrapped up in a unique kind of brilliance. And if he had seemed a trifle hurt at John's dismissal of his website's findings … John got the feeling that was an aberration, and that was even more intriguing. Why would this man, Sherlock, care about what John thought? Because he saw the look of surprise when, later in the evening, John told him he was extraordinary.

And, well, he _was_, thought John a little bitterly. He stared out the cab window as he listened as Sherlock explained his frankly brilliant deductions and had to admit to a bit of jealousy along with the awe. Unlike himself, Sherlock had a firm grasp of his gift and was plying it with skill and enthusiasm.

Because, John admitted to himself, it hurt, it did, that his own gift had abandoned him, leaving him just a shell of facts for Sherlock to observe and deduce. Not really all that long ago, he had had that kind of fire burning inside him, too. He would find himself shaping words and phrases to events as his day went on, thinking about how to describe, how to translate his experiences to the page. It had been a driving need, not just a hobby, and until he'd lost it, he hadn't realized how much it had defined him.

To watch Sherlock … well, it twinged, because while his gift might be utterly different than John's had been, he was in control of it and using it (apparently) to solve crimes and befuddle innocent army doctors that crossed his path.

Still, John thought, gazing out the window as they approached the crime scene, lights flashing in the distance, maybe the gifts weren't quite so different. A writer and a detective both observed things, took note of details others might miss. It was just what they did with them that differed.

Which was why he couldn't help the chuckle moments later when he corrected Sherlock's one error by saying, "Harry's short for Harriet," because, from a writer's perspective, wasn't that a delicious plot twist? Something unexpected but necessary, foreshadowed by a series of viable but misdirecting plot points, all so that the writer could turn it on its ear at just the right moment for a laugh or a surprise. And it had taken Sherlock by surprise because he was so focused on the details of the scene in front of him; he'd forgotten to look at the big picture.

Well, big picture, laughed John to himself. That hardly described him. He was just a minor character, no doubt fleeting, in the story of Sherlock's life. Because of course Sherlock was the main character while John was in the supporting role.

Honestly, he'd always suspected he was destined to be a chronicler, a spinner-of-tales, rather than holding a part in the story himself—even in his own story. Part of him had never lost the childhood tendency to narrate his own life ("With a bound, John leapt over the fallen lamp, nimbly avoiding the cord stretched across the room as he rushed to help his fallen mother.")

But then, that was just another thing taken in Afghanistan. He just hoped somebody would see Sherlock for the leading man he deserved to be, long after he was gone.

#

Or, maybe Sherlock was an anti-hero, he wondered shortly after as Sherlock tromped around the crime scene, crushing opinions and egos as he went.

And yet … he was brilliant. John had never met anyone like him. He had been impressed before, watching what Sherlock could do with nothing more to go on than John's phone. But now? When there was a life lost, a murderer to catch? It was nothing less than inspiring. Details on the victim's marriage, how she'd come from Wales to spend the night … how was that even possible?

He was dazzled by the intelligence, even as he was appalled by the behaviour, but still, he couldn't keep his admiration inside. It had been too long since he'd felt anything like that—or, anything at all other than bitterness and emptiness. He found himself drawn to that warmth, that incredibly satisfying moment when inspiration hit and illuminated everything, like a frozen man pulling close to a fire from pure instinct.

In fact, as he watched Sherlock bound down the stairs, he saw the flash strike him in a burst of revelation and for a moment, felt even more lost—not so much because he'd been left behind, but because he had been bereft of that kind of spark for so long now. He thought his life would never be anything other than grey and dull.

Still, if he moved in with Sherlock, he would be able to witness his passion, his enthusiasm … that was better than nothing, wasn't it? John wasn't a selfish man, after all. Just because his muse had abandoned him (and who could blame her), he couldn't begrudge that joy for someone else.

#


	2. Chapter 2

The bitterness in Sgt Donovan's voice as she warned John away from Sherlock surprised him, even after he'd witnessed their antagonism earlier. Was she the villain of the story, he wondered? Or just a minor obstacle for the hero? Considering how easily Sherlock had outwitted her and Anderson, she could even be comic relief, except that there was too much dislike, too much hatred in her face for her to be that innocuous.

It seemed odd, he thought, as he limped down the street in search of a cab, that he kept thinking of Sherlock as a character in a story. Was it because his personality was bigger than life, he wondered? Or because of the man himself apparently being convinced that _he_ was the sole reason the rest of them were there. Someone had said once that we were all the lead characters in our own stories, but most people past the age of two accepted that they were part of an ensemble cast. Sherlock, though … he drew attention like other people drew breath. Easily, naturally. He was made to be the lead, to be the centre of the other characters' orbit.

John didn't know why his mind was trying to cast his new flatmate as the lead of some kind of murder mystery.

As he began to be haunted by ringing phones, though, he wondered … maybe Sherlock's life was more like a spy novel?

That thought was bolstered when John was picked up in a sleek black car and driven to a deserted warehouse. The mystery man with the umbrella (there was no doubt he trumped Sherlock on the enigmatic scale) just solidified that when he pronounced himself Sherlock's archenemy.

John was so caught up in the way the Plot was Thickening, he almost couldn't concentrate on the conversation. For the first time in months, his fingers were itching for a pencil so he could jot down the way the floor glistened, the way the man's footsteps echoed and bounced off the rafters. The politely ominous way he issued statements that weren't quite threats. Really, everything about the scene was perfect.

"Trust issues, it says here," the man said, reading out of a notebook John wanted to pull from his fingers just for the sake of the blank pages. "Is it possible you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes, of all people?"

"Who says I trust him?" responded John.

"True," the man said with a smirk. "You haven't shared anything about yourself with him, have you. Everything he knows about you, he's deduced himself. Do you think that's a sound basis for a shared living arrangement?"

"I don't see why not," John had to fight not to step back. "I'm sure he'll learn my bad habits as quickly as I learn his."

"They are legion, I assure you," said the man. "But, no. I was referring to your habit of writing things down. You've neglected it since you were wounded, but it's begun to revive, hasn't it, since you met Sherlock?"

"I could be wrong, but I think that's none of your business."

"It could be."

Oh, really, and how do you suppose the words in my head are any business of yours, thought John as he said, "It really couldn't."

"It could if you were to, say, write down what Sherlock is up to. Nothing indiscreet, nothing you'd feel uncomfortable with, just innocent blog posts. I worry about him, you see. Constantly."

So you want me to spy on him, thought John? "No."

"I could make it worth your while."

"No."

"I haven't even named a figure."

John felt a small twinge. One thing the tall man was right about was that, somehow, his fascination with Sherlock had begun to break down the dam of words he'd carried with him since Afghanistan. He wanted nothing more than to write down, record, analyse, dissect the man's actions. He wanted to study him, to understand what made his character work. And to be offered money to do what he wanted to do anyway? He admitted it was tempting, considering his perpetually strained budget, but he didn't want to give this man the satisfaction. John was not one to spy on his friends, and the words he wrote? They were only ever meant for himself. And so he said, "Don't bother."

"You're very loyal, very quickly," he was told, with a hint of fascination.

"No," John said, "I'm just not interested. Are we done here?"

"You tell me."

Oh, John wanted to. For a moment he was grateful for his cane, helping him to hold steady against the flood of words that were trying to burst out of him all at once. He felt he would explode with the words pressing against his tongue, each trying to be first, to be loudest. Each trying to be perfect, descriptive, erudite. It was all John could do to silently shake his head as he turned away.

"One more thing."

He stopped, trying to clear his head before turning to see the man holding his notebook again. "It says here you have an intermittent tremor of the left hand. Your therapist believes you have post-traumatic stress disorder."

John swallowed, not sure he wanted to know how the man had learned that.

"Fire her," the man said, stepping closer. "You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady."

John stood, eyes front as the other man came closer still, looming over him for a moment before leaning slightly forward to say. "You're not haunted by the war, Dr Watson. You miss it. You miss your gift, the fire it almost extinguished."

He reached into another pocket and pulled out another notebook, identical to his own, which he handed to John. "Perhaps this will help. Welcome back."

And then, all but whistling as he twirled his umbrella, he walked away, leaving John, stunned, staring at the blank book in his hand as his fingers twitched toward the pencil in his pocket and his phone's text alert chimed yet again.

#

"Do people even have archenemies?" John asked Sherlock later.

It seemed a vital question, suddenly. Had John thought about it, he would have classified his life thus far as something like an action-adventure, what with the army and all. In a warzone, your enemies were usually clear and distinct, but they tended toward the faceless and vague—nothing so specific as a personal enemy.

Now, though, he felt that he'd stepped into a thriller with espionage and covert meetings, and he was eager to know—was this normal? Did James Bond feel this much at sea the first time he was kidnapped? How did Dick Francis's heroes handle this kind of thing with such aplomb?

Except, he wasn't frightened or nervous about the way his evening was going, even though it had turned into so much more than just looking at a flat. He hadn't planned on a crime scene, or being abducted, obliquely threatened, and then bribed with a blank notebook. (And, did the notebook count as a bribe?) He had made it clear he wasn't going to report Sherlock's actions, after all. His fingers curled around the smooth leather volume in his pocket as he paced around the room, trying to make sense of things, longing to pull it out just to make some notes.

"Did he offer to pay you to spy on me?"

"Yes."

"Did you accept?"

John pursed his lips, feeling slightly insulted, though he wasn't sure why. "No."

"Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time."

John laughed. Such convoluted logic. So practical, yet he never would have thought of it. To him, the decision hadn't been '_Could I use the money_' so much as '_Is it the right thing to do?_' He would never have even considered accepting the deal and then coming to Sherlock to tell him they'd split it. It would still have felt like a betrayal, somehow.

John paced around the room, neater than it had been earlier, and tried not to be fascinated by the eclectic blend of _things_ Sherlock had collected. Were they souvenirs from other cases? Mementoes from lovers? Or had he just bought an odd-lot at an auction and spread things around to promote his air of mystery and eccentricity?

Because there was no denying there was some eccentric in Sherlock Holmes. Showman, too. And now? John wasn't sure what to make of the man sprawled on the couch, idly gesturing toward a pink suitcase as he asked John to send a text. A text! Didn't Sherlock have a perfectly good phone of his own? More descriptors popped into his head. Autocratic. High-handed.

Unable to tamp down his own curiosity, John sent the text as Sherlock explained that the murderer must have Jennifer Wilson's phone. "Wait, did I just text a murderer?"

Sherlock was waving that concern off even as his phone chimed with a new message from an unknown number. John stared at it in horror. A murderer. An actual, blood-on-his-hands murderer was texting him. Him! Mum would be so proud, he thought dumbly as he stared.

Sherlock meanwhile was on his feet now and reaching for his coat, inviting John along. Which … was ridiculous. He was still recovering from a bullet wound. He walked with a cane. Going to a crime scene was one thing, but—trying to catch a killer?

"You could stay here and watch telly," Sherlock offered with a sneer that was as much of a dare as a commentary on John's possible choice of relaxation. It was a test, John knew. He'd be welcome in the flat either way, but if he chose to stay behind right now, future invitations to participate in cases would not be extended.

He thought about the nearly-empty notebook in his pocket. He had scribbled in it a bit in the car earlier, but the intermittent light and the difficulty writing legibly as they drove (as if he didn't have enough trouble with that already), had made him put it away. Part of him had been looking forward to a chance to sit and _write_. He could feel the itch in his fingers—right now, he knew, there would be no block. All he needed … and he _needed_ it like any junkie needing a fix … was a quiet moment to sit, but what if he let Sherlock walk out that door and he never asked again? What if that surge of life, of passion, he'd felt earlier was to be all he got?

He muttered something about filling in for Sherlock's skull, and the absurdity of this (Go out? When he wanted to stay here and write?), but Sherlock just looked at him, eyes gleaming. "And I said dangerous, and here you are."

Damn it, thought John, and then repeated it aloud as he struggled to his feet. How did Sherlock know that he needed to see how this turned out?

#

They were back at the flat, heaving breathless breaths in the hallway after their run and John couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so … light. How had he not realized how sluggish and miserable he'd been? Hibernating. Dormant. Dead. Except now he felt alive in a way he couldn't understand.

When he opened the door to find Angelo standing there with his cane, well … this was a magic he didn't know how to define.

More words presented themselves. Joy. Purpose. Fulfilment. Relief.

Happiness.

All he could do was smile with disbelief and gratitude as Sherlock shouted, "Dr Watson will be taking the room upstairs!" Because, you're damn right he was, thought John. He wouldn't miss it. This was a story he wanted to finish.

Right on cue, then, the Conflict arose, as Mrs Hudson hurried over, asking Sherlock what he'd done.

Upstairs, it was all chaos, and John stopped in the doorway, stunned at the squad of officers swarming through the flat. A drugs bust? He couldn't … had he misread Sherlock so badly, then? Was the man's burning fire, that amazing inspiration, actually chemically induced and therefore fragile and fleeting?

Could he afford to let his pathetic secondary-character existence be entwined with a flawed main character?

But as he watched the events unfold, as Sherlock spun in starbursts and explosions of inspiration and deductive revelation, John realized that, yes, he could. In fact, he needed to, because somehow he was able to _help_. He helped slow Sherlock's frenetic pace down to a speed the rest of them could follow. He helped him see Jennifer Wilson's motivation, helped him to see that she'd been human enough to think of her loved ones at the end, even if that ended up being a password.

The fact, though, was that he had _helped_, and in doing so, he had extended the story, moved along its plot.

Like a writer should.

#

John watched the officers leave, feeling a little lost, but with words burning a hole in his pocket, eager to be spent. He drifted over to Sherlock's computer. Maybe he could just … type a little? Maybe put these words into an email to himself? It wouldn't hurt anything, after all, and Sherlock had already shown a casual concern for personal ownership. It was just that John really needed to let some of this out…

Absently, he hit the refresh key as he considered and, to his surprise, saw Jennifer Wilson's phone was no longer in the building.

He froze then, with the realization that neither was Sherlock.

The earlier conversation flashed through his mind. "Do they often think you're the killer?" "Now and again, yes." He remembered how Sherlock had casually walked out the door, past all the milling police officers. It was almost suspicious, how swiftly and discreetly he had disappeared, when nothing in John's observations this night suggested Sherlock understood the concept of discretion.

But … no. He stared at the moving dot as he gave himself a mental shake. He had texted that number and there had been no ring, no noise anywhere in the flat. It had not been there earlier in the evening. It had shown up when … wait. What had Mrs Hudson said about a cab?

Grabbing the computer, John ran for the door.

#


	3. Chapter 3

Gun hot in his hand, John ducked back into the hallway so Sherlock wouldn't see him. God, that had been too close. What had Sherlock been thinking? It had been hard to see exactly what was going on, but John had seen the newspaper. All the serial-suicide victims had died from the same poison, and Sherlock had been _going to take that pill_.

What the _hell_ had the cabbie said to him?

As he started, panting, down the hallway, torn between a furious disbelief that Sherlock had been about to do something so stupid, relief that he'd been able to stop him, and a burning desire to know how the cabbie had so nearly convinced him in the first place.

Oh, and a surprisingly numb disregard for the fact that he'd just taken a man's life.

That last should probably be bothering him more than it did.

He ran down the hall, suddenly hoping they didn't have security cameras. (He really hated CCTV tonight.) Ducking into first bathroom he saw, he scrubbed at his hands, hoping he could get rid of enough of the gunshot residue, that he wouldn't attract attention.

Really, he hoped he wouldn't attract attention for any reason. For a moment, he caught his own eyes in the mirror, seeing strains of emotions that had been absent for … well, too long. Far too long. The thing that amazed him, though, was how fierce he looked. His hands slowed under the stream of water as he stared at his own reflection, as if seeing a ghost.

"What were you thinking?" he asked himself, voice bouncing off the ceramic tile.

He wasn't entirely sure he could even answer that question. All he knew was that he couldn't let Sherlock take that pill. "The hero can't miss the climax," he told himself.

And that was true, he thought. The main character has to survive. He'd read a book once where the lead had died (Staggerford? Staggerton? Something like that) and it had been an altogether unsatisfying ending to an otherwise excellent book. But this was different, wasn't it? Real life wasn't the same as fiction. It didn't always have happy endings.

"Sherlock is real," he pointed out to his reflection.

"That doesn't mean he's not a hero."

"What does that make me, then? The humorous sidekick? Because I've already been shot once, thank you. My shirt's not red."

He tried not to think of the absurdity of having a conversation with his own reflection, but concentrated on the question at hand. Was he really the sidekick?

Oh, God, he was, wasn't he?

He shut off the water and grabbed a paper towel. Marvellous. This was just great, just super. How had he been downgraded to a supporting character in his own life?

He listened for a minute before leaving the bathroom, wiping away any possible fingerprints on the taps, though it seemed a bit like locking the barn after the horse escaped. He'd left prints on the classroom door handle, after all, and the door to the building. They might be missed among the countless others in a public building … or they might not. He just knew he couldn't afford to go back to check.

He did wish he knew how Sherlock was, he thought as he pushed open the door at the other end of the hallway with his elbow. He'd paused only long enough to know that his bullet had hit its mark and that Sherlock was still standing before grabbing his shell casing and heading for the door. He couldn't predict if Sherlock would stay with the cabbie or come to hunt down the shooter.

Christ, the shooter.

That was him. He. That was he, he corrected himself, but did anybody really worry about grammar anymore? And was he really babbling to himself about an outmoded if correct grammar usage when he had just killed a man?

Don't think about it, John told himself. It was necessary. He saw a coffee shop up ahead and, thinking about how long it had been since the aborted dinner at Angelo's, went inside to get a drink. He smiled politely but didn't make conversation as he took a seat near the window to wait for his drink, pulling out his notebook and starting to write.

He didn't know how long it was before he realized the light was bad not because the bulbs were flickering but because there were flashing police cars outside. The cavalry had obviously arrived then, he thought, looking up with interest.

He couldn't believe how easily the words flowed as he wrote a description of the way the lights reflected in the double-paned thermal glass.

"You a writer?" The girl from the counter was standing behind him. "Here's your tea," she said, holding out his cup, but her eyes were glued on the scene outside.

"Yes," John said, thinking fast. He didn't know if she'd read any of his notes and, considering the kind of evening he'd had, it was better she thought him a writer than the shooter. Besides, he'd gotten a short story published once, and he was writing, wasn't he? That made him a writer.

Oh.

He was writing.

He felt a smile spreading across his face.

He was _writing_.

#

A few minutes later, it was almost difficult to put the notebook away and leave, but he really did want to know that Sherlock was all right. It wasn't like the police didn't know he'd been looking for Sherlock, after all. He'd tried hard enough to call them. They wouldn't be surprised to see him, right?

Besides, if he didn't stop now, he wasn't going to be able to tear himself away.

Leaving the shop, he headed toward the crime scene, trying to show the correct level of concern on his face as he spotted the charming Sgt Donovan. "What happened?"

She looked at him for a moment before recognizing him. "Oh, it's you. Don't think I'm letting you in there again."

He glanced down at the tape line. "No, no. Of course not. But … Sherlock? Is he okay?"

She almost looked disappointed as she nodded. "He's fine, for an idiot who deliberately got in a cab with a killer."

John made a sceptical, curious, encouraging noise and she continued, "The serial killer. Apparently he had two pills—one poison, one not—and he would make the victims choose one while he took the other. Turns out the Freak thought he could best him at his own game."

"But … Sherlock's okay, you said? So … he guessed right?"

"No, that's the mystery," Donovan said, glancing back at the orderly chaos behind her. "Before either of them could take the pill, someone shot the cabbie."

"What?" John tried to put as much surprise into that as he could.

"Yeah, he's dead." Another look behind her. "Look, I've got to go. If you want to wait for the Freak, you can, but take my advice and take this chance to walk away before you end up dead, too."

John could feel his jaw hanging slack as she walked away. The nerve … he didn't know if he was more upset for himself or on Sherlock's behalf. Who was she to pick Sherlock's friends for him?

Because, he realized, somehow during the course of this craziest night of his life, he had started to think of Sherlock as a friend. But then, he supposed he wouldn't kill for just anyone.

He stepped aside to be out of the way and just watched the activity for a few moments, before pulling his notebook out of his pocket and jotting down a description of the scene, how it looked like random chaos with people hurrying back and forth, but underneath was orderly and composed.

Finally, though, he saw Sherlock come out of the building to sit (under duress) at the back of the ambulance. He certainly looked okay, thought John, shoving the notebook back in his jacket before clasping his hands behind him. From this distance, he didn't see any signs of stress or trauma. His new flatmate looked utterly composed except for the grimace as the medic draped an orange shock blanket over his shoulders.

Detective Inspector Lestrade had gone over to him now and John already recognized the expression on Sherlock's face as he plunged into a string of deductions. He just wished he knew if he was deducing the cabbie or the shooter.

He had his answer when the stream of words stopped the moment Sherlock spotted him.

Damn. Now what?

He held Sherlock's gaze for a moment before innocently glancing away. Nope, nothing to see here. Carry on. Isn't that flashing light over there shiny? So much more interesting to watch.

He waited for an endless ten heartbeats before glancing back to judge whether he should consider running and what on earth he could use as his alibi. He was stunned to see Sherlock shrugging off Lestrade's questions and heading his way.

Okay, fine then. John tried to concentrate on the words he would choose to describe the way Sherlock's coat flared with his stride as he watched him duck under the tape, but it wasn't possible. Hoping to hold him off, John said, "Sgt Donovan's just been telling me … two pills? Dreadful business."

"Good shot," Sherlock told him, gaze level.

John gave a brisk nod. "Yes, it must have been, through that window."

"You should know."

John exhaled. What, really, was the point of keeping this up? He knew that Sherlock knew, and he knew that John knew that he knew … and so he didn't say anything, but just met the man's eyes, waiting to see what he would do.

He was surprised when Sherlock asked abruptly, "Are you all right?"

He had expected accusations, more insinuations, not a query into his health, but he gave another crisp nod. "I'm fine."

"You have just shot a man."

And there it was, out in the open, and now John felt like he was the villain. His lips even twisted into a parody of an evil smile as he thought it, even as he mentally chastised himself for letting his imagination get the upper hand. "True," he said, "But he wasn't a very nice man."

He met Sherlock's eyes calmly. He had no regrets, not really. He would rather have not needed to kill a man this evening, but it had been a matter of defence of his new friend and flatmate, and all things considered, he was happier that Sherlock was alive than dead. No matter what happened, Sherlock was still breathing and John had to count that as a win—no matter what happened to him.

The other man was studying him, measuring him against God knew what kind of mental ruler, and John just waited for the axe to fall.

He was surprised when Sherlock blinked and gave his head a small shake before saying, "No, he wasn't, was he?"

Encouraged, John quipped, "And frankly, a bloody awful cabbie."

Sherlock laughed. "He was a bad cabbie. You should have seen the route it took us to get here."

And just like that, things were easy between them. John couldn't understand it. It wasn't like the comradeship he'd felt with his army mates or with his fellow doctors over the years. They had been friends, buddies, colleagues—even lovers—but this connection with Sherlock? It was like the purest form of friendship John had ever experienced. As if his actions tonight had moved them to the same level. Equals, now, instead of leader-follower or hero-sidekick.

Which is why John, stepping strong now on his two, solid legs, challenged him. "You were going to take that damn pill, weren't you?"

"Of course not," Sherlock said automatically, with barely a pause before adding, "I was biding my time. Knew you'd show up."

"No you didn't." John couldn't help the smile and it only grew broader when he turned Sherlock's words against him by telling him, his friend, that he was an idiot.

He had it on the best authority that everyone is, after all.

#

After that—as if the night hadn't been full enough—Umbrella Man showed up again and John stood in confused wonder as he watched the two men actually squabble like … no, it couldn't be. But it was. "He's your _brother?_"

Oh, that was just too delicious. An older brother who declares himself an archenemy while literally kidnapping his sibling's new flatmate off the street to bribe him?

He didn't know if he should be appalled at the frankly alarming family dynamic there, or to squee like a fangirl at an absolutely wonderful plot twist. He was too stunned to do either, though, as he reminded himself that this was real life, not some story. He really did know the difference, but honestly, he could write down exactly what happened tonight, and who would ever believe it was the truth?

And as he walked away with Sherlock, muttering something about Moriarty, John couldn't help but smile. He _wanted_ to write this down. His fingers were practically itching to do it, whether by pen or keyboard … oh, no. "Damn it."

"What?" asked Sherlock, glancing down.

"Your laptop. I was using it to trace the phone, and … I must have left it in the cab. I am so sorry." And he was. How was he going to replace that when he could barely afford to buy food? "I feel awful."

Sherlock shrugged, shoulders level beneath the charcoal tweed of his coat. "I was due a new one, anyway. And you lost it trying to save my life, after all. It was really quite resourceful of you." He considered a moment. "Though I suppose it could be problematic if it were connected with your early arrival at the crime scene. I don't suppose you remember the cab number?"

He all but grinned as John shook his head, and pulled out his phone.

#


	4. Chapter 4

John couldn't remember the last time he'd been so tired. By the time they had tracked down the correct cab and reclaimed the laptop, they had barely made it to Sherlock's preferred Chinese before it closed at 2:00. Because of the hour, they had brought the food back to Baker Street and John collapsed into the comfortable red chair with a container of chow mein clutched in his hands, trying to find the energy to open it. "I can't remember the last time I was this tired," he said out loud.

"And you an army man?"

"Let's just say I'm out of practice, then," John replied. "It's been a full day—and all I really planned to do was look at a flat." He looked at his watch. "Over seven hours ago."

He leaned his head back, fighting his eyelids. He really should eat something, he told himself. He wondered if it would be okay to just sit here and not move until daylight, if Sherlock would mind him not heading back to his bedsit.

"You should at least take your jacket off," came an amused baritone.

John pried his eyes open. Right. That would probably be more comfortable. He looked at his hands, full of Chinese food, and wearily tried to think what to do with it. It would definitely make it hard to pull the sleeves off. Okay, fine. He propped the food between his legs (see? It was good he hadn't opened it yet) and leaned forward, trying to shrug his shoulders out of the jacket, but, well, his left shoulder wasn't as agile as it used to be.

"Oh, here," Sherlock still sounded amused, but also slightly exasperated, as if watching such inefficiency pained him. He came over to help pull the jacket off John's left arm, then his right, and then pulled it out from behind him to drape it on the wooden chair by the desk. As he did, the notebook fell out of the pocket.

John winced a bit. He hoped Sherlock wasn't going to make a fuss and start teasing. He didn't want to talk about writing/not-writing and, at any rate, was far too tired at the moment.

He didn't expect the way Sherlock's face froze, the friendly warmth suddenly iced over. "I thought you said no."

"What?" John's brow creased as he tried to figure out what Sherlock was talking about, and then realized—the notebook was identical to the one Umbrella Man had used. It was also obviously new, and … oh. "No, no. It's not what you think."

"And what exactly do you suppose I think, Dr Watson?"

Christ, he'd been busted back to Dr Watson instead of John now? That quickly? This was going wrong far too fast.

"You think I took Umbrella Man's … Mycroft's … offer, and then lied to you. That he gave me that notebook to keep tabs on you. But it's not true," John said quickly, not liking the hint of betrayal in Sherlock's pale eyes.

Sherlock didn't look convinced.

"Look at it," John told him. "It's true that he gave me the notebook, but it's because I _write_. Or at least, I used to."

He watched Sherlock open the book, skimming over his no doubt pathetic attempts at prose as John told him the rest, trying not to blather. He told him how he'd been writing his whole life, constantly, but that he'd somehow lost the gift when he was shot. "I don't know why, but suddenly I couldn't put two words together. It … it was awful," he tried to explain. "Worse than the limp, worse than the tremor in my hand. It was like … I don't know. Like a musician who suddenly can't find an instrument, or an artist without paints. I'd spent my whole life channelling … everything … into words and suddenly, there was nothing."

The ice in Sherlock's expression had thawed now, but he still didn't say a word.

"I don't know how your brother found out. He had my therapist's notes—which I'm trying not to think about—but he didn't get it from her. She never knew about the writing. Your brother, though … somehow he knew, and somehow he saw that, tonight, I was starting to … to get some of that _back_. He handed me the notebook as I left and said 'welcome back,' I still don't know why. But, Sherlock, it was _never_ because I agreed to spy on you. I didn't. I wouldn't."

Please let this work, he thought, all thoughts of fatigue gone. This was more important than being tired, and just like in the army when he'd had to work punishing shifts to save lives, he pushed his exhaustion back and just worked around it. He'd deal with that later.

Sherlock didn't say anything for a long moment, but just looked through the few pages John had written on. "Umbrella Man?" he finally said, a trace of amusement in his voice. "How enigmatic. And comparing the police lights to fairy lights, John? Isn't that rather mundane?"

John took a breath, relieved. "I did say I was out of practice. Bad though that is, it's the first unnecessary thing I've written in months, other than a blog post."

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. "Blog post?"

Oh. John hadn't meant to point that out. "You didn't know? Yeah, I've got a blog. It's my therapist's idea. She thinks it will help me get over my PTSD."

"She thinks you have…? And she didn't even realize that you used to write? Get rid of her."

John just lifted an eyebrow. "Really? Why?"

"She's obviously useless. She couldn't even get rid of your psychosomatic limp."

John leaned back in his chair again and pried open the Chinese container as Sherlock started typing on his computer—looking for John's blog, no doubt. "That's what your brother said—just before he thoughtfully got rid of my hand tremor."

He grinned at the pout on Sherlock's face. Christ, these were two of the most competitive brothers he'd ever seen. "He did nothing for my limp, though. And he's not the one who got me writing again—however badly."

"True," Sherlock said, not glancing up from the screen. "This is bad."

"Out of practice, I told you," said John taking a bite of food with a sigh. "I used to be better?"

Sherlock peered over the laptop and lifted an eyebrow. "Good?"

"Very good," John told him firmly. "Had a couple stories published before medicine and the army took up all my time."

Sherlock's head was already bent to the computer screen again, and John wondered if those stories were out there on the internet somewhere. He had copies of the magazines … somewhere … but he hadn't read the stories in years. He wondered if they were as good as he remembered.

He heard Sherlock make a small noise of triumph and sighed. This could be … bad. He couldn't imagine that Sherlock was anything less than a stringent critic, and he wasn't sure he could bear hearing it right now. He wasn't the most thin-skinned writer in terms of critique and edits, but, well, he was still feeling … fragile … where writing was concerned. He could just feel the urge to write stirring and spreading tentative feelers, but he was convinced one, cold blast of disdain would kill it dead, and he wasn't sure he could survive that. Not again. Not so soon.

He absently ate the (really excellent) chow mein, thinking idly over his frankly unbelievable night. If he'd read it in a book, he wouldn't have believed it. Serial suicides. A murderous cabbie. A case hinging on a pink suitcase and a phone's GPS tracking password scratched into the floor. Why, he wondered, had she gouged the password, when any normal investigator would have stopped looking when he'd found her dead baby's name had been Rachel? Wouldn't "Mobile" or "Phone" have been a more logical clue? Wouldn't the police have been able to trace the phone, then, given due cause? What if she really had been thinking about her daughter, and Sherlock was just making it more complicated …though he'd been right.

No, an ordinary investigator wouldn't have figured this out, certainly not so quickly. He glanced sideways at Sherlock, engrossed with his reading. The man really was extraordinary, in the truest sense of the word—outside, beyond ordinary. How had he done it? How was it possible to observe and deduce so much from so little?

It was fascinating. Unbelievable and fascinating. No wonder the officers from NSY were sceptical—though Sherlock hadn't exactly tried to win any of them over with his charm.

His fork dropped into the container as he started toward the window. No wonder he kept thinking of Sherlock as a larger-than-life character from a book—he could _be_ one, with his brains and his looks. Written well, he'd be a character for the ages, solving crimes that were unsolvable, not by intimidation or force, but by using his wits.

He thought about the constellation of great, fictional detectives—Miss Marple, Hercule Poirot, all the rest—and none of them compared to what he had witnessed tonight.

He found himself thinking about how he would shape the night's events, if he were writing them as a story. Sherlock's vibrant personality would certainly take over the story, he thought, not because he was bold so much as because he was complex. Childish and cynical and wise. Demanding. Generous. He thought about how the same man who'd mortified Sgt Donovan at the crime scene had smiled like a boy when Angelo showed up with John's no-longer-necessary cane. How the man so brilliant at deducing a crime scene had been foolish enough to get in the car with a killer—and had almost taken the damn pill.

No, it was the contradictions that made him a fascinating, great character …but not one that anyone would believe.

John himself, meanwhile, had not shown to great effect throughout the night at all. He had floundered along behind with a no doubt bewildered expression on his face the whole time. He'd just been swept along in Sherlock's wake. There solely to be a listening board for the necessary exposition of the case. Practically useless.

Well, it was better than being the comic relief, he supposed. That would be Anderson.

No, his own role, had this been a story, would have been as the blundering sidekick, too dumb to know what was going on. Morosely, he stared down at the container of food and forced himself to take another bite of the cooling mess.

"This," Sherlock said suddenly, not looking up from the computer screen, "This story is…"

"You don't have to say it, Sherlock," said John. "Trite. Amateurish. Banal. I'm sure it's not up to your standards."

There was a pause, then, "What happened to believing you're 'very good'?"

John just shook his head. "I obviously miss too much, don't spend enough time on detail… You don't have to tell me."

"I wasn't going to."

John looked over warily. "No?"

"No, in fact, while some of the observations may be trite, this is … good. You need not be ashamed of it."

John almost laughed. That might actually be high praise from Sherlock Holmes. "I'm not," he said. "I just …"

"You miss writing," said Sherlock, following his eyes to the blank book Mycroft had given earlier. "You've lost faith in your current skill, but until I started reading, you were confident in your earlier abilities. What changed? Ah, of course. You started thinking and second-guessing yourself."

Sherlock's head tipped to the side as he considered and now John stared firmly at the chow mein container, unwilling to look up. "You're thinking about the events of the last seven hours and feel … inferior? And are therefore translating that to your writing ability as well. But why?"

John's eyebrows lifted. "Why? I was useless tonight. All I did was trail around behind you asking stupid questions."

"And firing a very well-timed gun," Sherlock corrected.

"So I'm the brawn, then? Because if so, we're both in trouble."

"Not at all," Sherlock said, face serious as he studied John. "You held your own remarkably well tonight. Not many people do as well keeping up with me. And I don't mean physically. Your questions weren't stupid, but helpful."

John would have scoffed at the conceit of the statement, but couldn't argue with it. Sherlock was very definitely in a class of his own. "I'll blame the obsessive reading—I'm always looking for the juicy plot twist."

Sherlock just shook his head. "I shudder to think of the kind of books you read."

John just levelled his own look at him. "You'd probably be surprised. We're just lucky that I rely more on the library than on owning my own books, because we'd be seriously short on space. I'd get one of those e-readers if I could afford one, if only to make collecting books easier. But, like I said, I don't own as many as I'd like, the army made that tricky. But I read a _lot_."

He glanced over to see Sherlock watching him, looking almost confused. "I pictured you as a mystery thriller reader."

"Yeah, those, sure," John said with a nod. "Also medicine, history, classics, science fact, science fiction, literary fiction, popular, esoteric … I'll read almost anything. I might not have your impressive power of recall, but my tastes are wide-ranging. I used to wear out my library card every summer, and my mother finally put a limit on how many books I was allowed to own… But reading, well … I loved it, even if reading took second place to writing."

To his surprise, though, Sherlock looked interested. "So how did you end up in medicine? In the army?"

John scratched at his temple, trying to find the words. "I wanted to help people, and needed a career I could count on." He glanced down at his left hand and gave a short laugh. "Well, I thought I could. But writing? That was never going to be something I could rely on to put bread on the table. Besides, I enjoyed it too much. I didn't want to kill it by turning it into something I had to do."

He was relieved when Sherlock nodded at that, glancing over to a violin in the corner. "But you still filter events as if they were part of a story?"

"God, no," said John. "Regular life would be the most boring story in the world. Tonight, though? Now that was interesting. I kept thinking what a great story it would make, but unbelievable at the same time. You're … you're rather larger than life, Sherlock. Nobody'd believe it."

Sherlock had turned back to the laptop, but now he glanced over the top, looking at John from beneath his brows. "Isn't that one of the hallmarks of good fiction? It doesn't have to be believable, it just has to make its own internal sense. As long as the writer is good enough, it's the power of the story that moves things along."

That was true, thought John. Readers would buy convoluted plots and extreme, unbelievable events so long as they were introduced right. Look at some of the plots of that Victorian chap, Arthur Conan Doyle—he wrote as if fairies were real, for God's sake, but the fact that he was utterly convinced made his stories of them believable (well, almost). The entire genre of science fiction is founded on impossible events. And murder mysteries? Taken _en masse_ they were utterly unbelievable. How many people would invite Miss Marple to dinner after the third or fourth murder happened in her vicinity?

The point wasn't for fiction to be believable, it was for it to be a good story—to take people out of themselves, to while away the time, or teach a lesson. He could turn tonight's adventure into a story and—unbelievable as it was—people wouldn't care how unlikely it was because it would be a cracking good story.

Fatigue forgotten, his fingers began to itch for a pencil again.

This story was going to be epic.

#

THE END


End file.
